


Dauntless ~ A Divergent!AOS AU

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Divergent (Movies), Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: (Also Non Graphic), (Non Graphic), Domestic Violence, Gen, Multi, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4272024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz is a transfer from Abnegation. Simmons is a transfer from Erudite. Ward is Dauntless born and bred. Under the instruction of the mysterious and legendary Cavalry - legend has it, an Amity transfer with a not-so-Amity past - and her colleagues, the three of them endure Initiation only to find themselves wrapped up in a conspiracy that tests their friendship and pits their home Factions against one another in a vicious civil war.</p><p>Meanwhile, in Candor, Skye and Hunter face the conspiracy from the other side. It takes courage to stand by the truth once blood starts being shed. Especially when that blood is not your own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. --

**Author's Note:**

> This is the biggest work I've done in a while, and it's my first one on this site, so bear with me, but I've got quite a lot of it written, so I will aim to post a chapter a week. I would love to talk about this with you guys, and I'm theclaravoyant on tumblr if you wanna come chat there. I also have a side page dedicated to this fic/verse, including with graphics and trailers, so pop along if you're interested!

 

_\-- Broadcasting: Rising Tide --_

 

_Autumn. Fall. Our ancestors called it Harvest Season. We call it The Choosing. For many of our young people, this is one and the same thing._

_In school we learn the noble intent of our Factions at their birth. That those who wished to fight ignorance, joined Erudite. That those who wished to fight cowardice, joined Dauntless. And so on. We are taught to respect the forthright way of the Candor, who make our laws, and the selflessness of the Abnegation, who care for our poor, our needy, and our orphans._

_But there is a dissonance that is never explained._

_How is it that intelligence has become more characteristic of an Erudite, than the will to learn?_

_How is it that somebody can leave behind everything they know in Dauntless, everything they love, and be called a coward?_

_These are the questions that our young people must face, this and every other Choosing season since this dissonance arose – maybe even since the very beginning._ _These are the questions to which our teachers do not offer answers. To which they may not even know the answers, since Erudite increasingly neglects philosophical pursuits._ _These are questions to which, in all honesty, there may not even be definitive answers._

_These are the questions that will shape our future._


	2. One

_Dauntless_

As he stood up out of his seat, Leopold Fitz became acutely aware that his shirt was untucked. His eyes ran over rows and rows of Erudite and Candor as he passed them, all without a crease or a hair out of place. His fingers hovered by the dangling fringe of his button-up, but he didn’t dare tuck it in now. Everyone’s eyes were on him as he stepped up to the platform. Even most of Dauntless had deigned to pay attention. Probably because he was taking so long – they must have figured something important was happening. He bit his lip, and teased the fraying edges of his grey cardigan sleeves with his fingers. This was exactly the kind of thing he had been warned to avoid.

_“You can’t tell anyone,”_ Andrew – his Sim operator, a volunteer from Amity – had insisted. _“You have to hide it. You should stay with your home faction and keep your head down. You’ll be fine.”_

He remembered thinking in that moment that he didn’t want to be fine. He’d been ‘fine’ most of his life. Fine wasn’t good enough. Fine was what you told people you were so that they were spared listening to your problems or feeling obliged to help. It was a lie. A selfless lie. And at the biggest moment of his life he didn’t want to lie. He didn’t want to be selfless. He was important, no matter whom and no matter how they told him otherwise. He had to be. Otherwise, why would this be an individual choice? Why would it matter that he was marked out? Why would _he_ matter at all? So he had objected. It was selfish, probably. Definitely. But it had felt _good._

It felt considerably less good now. This was exactly what they’d always warned him about. Selfish actions never worked out: not for the community and not even for the individual. This nausea, he had inflicted upon himself. He deserved it. He took a deep breath and stepped onto the platform.

Fitz’ heart pounded as he pricked his finger and raised his hand. Swallowing hard, he tried to think around it; to think like an Abnegation, like he was supposed to. He was dangerous, which meant everybody around him could be in danger. Staying might be the most harmonious choice, so of course it would be the one suggested by the Amity, but it wasn’t the safest choice. And it wasn’t the most selfless. He’d always been a good Abnegation, and he didn’t plan to stop now, even if that meant leaving the faction itself. Besides, he’d already asked Andrew to record him as Dauntless. He’d already made his choice. If he wanted to keep his head down now, he had to follow through with it.

( _Practicality,_ he thought. _How Erudite of you._ He could still see the screen in front of him, marking out the inner workings of his mind in percentages.)

Fitz closed his eyes, and listened to the hiss of his blood meeting the flames. Abnegation instinct warned that he was going to regret this, and his stomach flipped and churned uncomfortably, but when he opened his eyes, he could feel the smile break out across his face. The over-thinking and the rationalisations flew away, and it was as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders; as if his chest had been split open with the relief of it, and with the knowledge that he had the potential after all to be better than ‘fine’. This was already better than fine.

“Dauntless,” Weaver announced. Everybody applauded, and Fitz could finally breathe again. Blinking his relief away, he looked back to the Abnegation crowd. His mother had tears on her face, but she was smiling. She waved at him from her seat. Even his father had a begrudging nod to offer. He chose to take that as pride - or, more likely and not wanting to get ahead of himself, perhaps simply acceptance.

Weaver cleared her throat, and Fitz noticed with a flush of giddiness that he was almost too happy to be embarrassed. Grinning, heart hammering, he stepped down to make way for the next person. He was glad for a place reserved for Initiates in the front rows, though: the Dauntless were an intimidating bunch, and he’d already fought for enough today.

Fitz took an empty seat beside a girl from Erudite, wearing a high ponytail in a plain cut, and a blue blazer. She fidgeted with her hands, probably unsure about her choice. It flickered through him to wonder if she might be in the same situation as he was, but of course, to ask would be far too intrusive of him. Besides, Erudite had an even more hostile relationship with the Dauntless than Abnegation did; she had risked a lot more today than he had, at least as far as everybody else knew. Just as he resolved not to speak to her, though, he felt her nudge his elbow.

“Hi,” she said, taking his hand with a sudden and firm grip, and shaking it vigorously. “I’m Jemma Simmons.”

“Call me Fitz,” he said. He hoped she didn’t notice how quickly he pulled his hand away. But of course, she did. She frowned, and blushed, and laughed nervously to cover it up.

“Fitz,” she repeated. “Interesting that you chose to transfer from Abnegation. Then again, Initiate transfers have been increasing exponentially over the last couple of years. Statistically, we’re an uninteresting part of an interesting phenomenon -”

She babbled as if she might talk his ear off, but he didn’t mind. Her voice was sweet, and her excitement – albeit drawn primarily from nerves, if she was feeling anything like he was – infectious.

“- But what’ll be _really_ interesting to see is whether this is an anomaly or a pattern. Not that I’ll be around to find that out… Being in Dauntless and all… They’ll never let me back in the labs now…”

As the realisation sunk in, she trailed off. Her sparkling eyes dimmed, and she lowered them away from his face. He stared into the space her eyes had been, marvelling at the way the world could seem to shrink down to two people. To one, even. Never before had he been so drawn to someone’s mere _presence_. Plus, she seemed a bit too babbly to be Dauntless’ usual type, which suited him excellently. He smiled to himself, and experimentally nudged her elbow as she had done.

“Hey, um. You could always break in?”

She laughed. Then -

“Candor,” Weaver announced. Together, they cheered the brunette in the white dress as she stepped down from the platform.

-

_Candor_

Not for the first time, Skye wished they hadn’t called her Mary Sue Poots with what, a thousand people listening? But it was her legal name, so as far as Candor was concerned, it was her real name. She wasn’t sure how exactly her functionally non-existent parents got to decide such a thing for her – or how they managed to do so badly at it - but there was a definite strain of tradition being truth to a lot of Candor’s teachings. Blood was tradition, and the only thing higher than blood was Faction. Now that she was a fully-fledged member of said Faction, she could legally change her name. That should have made her smile. Instead, she fiddled with the bandage that covered the tiny cut with which she had made her choice, and the doubt that had cycled through her night after night for months now made its rounds again.

_“The test didn’t work on you,”_ Sarah had said. _“They call it Divergent.”_

She was beginning to wish she’d taken the Sim operator’s advice. She’d chosen to ignore it, to stay with Candor, because Candor was home, but now that she’d signed herself to it, she could see the ways it had never been home. The ways it could never be home. She couldn’t be herself anywhere, but she would have to be extra careful around here, perhaps moreso than anywhere else, even Erudite. The Erudite would be curious. They’d poke and prod her. Experiment on her. But the Candor would cast a judgement upon her, and she was quite certain it would not be good. Divergence was a rarity. Rarity was difference. In a system that depended on harmony through systematic collectivity, difference was bad. And Candor didn’t need curiosity to do the work for them. They had a truth serum.

Skye returned to the same seat she had left, with a sandy taste caked on her tongue and her stomach broiling somewhere by her knees. She breathed into her hands, trying not to think about the hours she had left before she could leave this place. She wished it were an empty seat beside her, so that she could at least imagine him there. He would have come, if she’d asked him to. And she would have asked if he might have been allowed, but the room was small, considering its purpose, and Candor’s measure of family didn’t extend to him.

At least he would be there when she got home. And if the rules were wrong, well then, the rules would just have to be changed. She could almost hear him reminding her.

Another cheer went around the room, and she smiled.


	3. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah Ward. Since there's no Hydra, Season 1 Big Brother Ward will be the most featured Ward in this fic.

_Dauntless_

The rickety sway of the train was oddly soothing. Jemma Simmons’ heart thumped and swelled with the busy chatter around her. She could still feel the rush of the wind on her face, and it made her giddy.

“Nice jump, Erudite,” one of the Dauntless praised, swaggering across the train car like its irregular movements had no impact on his balance. “What’s your name?”

“Simmons.” She offered her hand.

“Ward.” He gave it a rough, brief shake.

“Good name for a Dauntless,” Simmons noted.

“Oh?”

“It means…protector. To protect. Like – to ward off evil.”

“You know, I’d never thought about that?”

Simmons tilted her head. She couldn’t tell if Ward was joking or not. He sounded a little sarcastic, but the Dauntless weren’t exactly known for contemplating every facet of their lives. It was entirely possible that even if he had known the meaning of the word, he might never have thought about it enough to make the connection.

“But I thought you chose your names?” She peered up at him. If he had, as he claimed, chosen it without knowing the meaning, there must be a different reason.

“Not always.” Ward shrugged. “It’s just my last name. Why? Did you choose the name Simmons?”

“No. We just call each other by our last names in Erudite, most of the time. It’s professional courtesy, I suppose. ‘Simmons’ sounds a little more academic than ‘Jemma,’ anyway, don’t you think?”

“Jemma – precious jewel? I don’t know, I think I prefer that one. For a Dauntless anyway. Diamonds can cut through glass, did you know that?”

This time he sounded sincere, but he gave her a sparkling grin that let her know he was teasing. Of course she would know that; she was Erudite, and they knew everything, as far as the other Factions were concerned. She did especially like, though, the way he’d put it. She’d always thought of her name as beautiful, but that didn’t make it precious. Something that was beautiful and strong, though? Much better than merely clever.

“I like it too,” she mused. It was only then that she noticed Ward’s attention was no longer on her. He was standing by the open doorway, leaning so that his head was outside, in the wind, looking ahead.

“What. The Hell.” He laughed and shook his head. “Hey Jemma, come look.”

She kept her chin up, trying to hide the fear with which she crept to the edge of the train car. Ward braced her to his side with one arm, and held onto the handle by the door with the other, and she was grateful: for a moment, she nearly fainted clear away at the sight of the building the train was rapidly approaching. As she watched, the Initiates from the first carriages started jumping from the moving train onto the nearest rooftop, over a thirty-plus-storey-deep gap. Simmons clung a little tighter to Ward.

“Get ready!” called one of the Dauntless mentors. Simmons glanced at the gap between the train and the building, but before she could even try to properly assess the distance and force required to cross it, Ward was pulling her toward the opposite side of the carriage.

“We’ll jump together, okay?” he whispered. “It’ll be fine. Don’t think about landing. Try to fly. Ready? Three – two – “

Simmons took the biggest strides she could muster, and threw herself upward and out. The train thundered past, and for a while she felt like she might hang there so long, the whole giant silver streak would be out of sight by the time she hit the ground.

Ward executed a healthy roll in front of her. Too late, she realised she should have been preparing for the same. Then she hit the concrete and gravel, and her whole skeleton seemed to jar. She slammed into the ground and gasped for breath. She wasn’t the only one – not far away, two Candors and an Amity staggered to their feet while their Dauntless counterparts, already standing, jested and ruffled feathers.

As she brushed the pebbles and dust from her blazer, Simmons’ eyes were drawn to the Abnegation boy. He was already on his feet, and closest to the edge of all of them, brushing his presumably injured hands on his pants as he tried to get a better look from as far back as possible.

“Congratulations, Initiates.” A gnarled voice drew everyone’s attention to one of the Dauntless leaders, speaking from just inches away from the edge. Its owner stood beside a slightly taller woman, with a stony expression and eyes that watched the Initiates like hawks. Fitz crept back from them, hoping to blend with the crowd, as if his lone gravel-grey in a sea of black didn’t single him out.

“I’m Garrett,” the first speaker continued. “I’ll be one of your instructors. This is the Cavalry. She’ll be another. Just to be clear, this is not gender-divided duty of care – don’t come cryin’ to one of us over the other, ‘coz we’ll both kick your asses. I just talk more’n she does.”

The Cavalry nodded, her lips tight, as if to demonstrate his point.

“You’ve all made it off the train,” Garrett went on. “Congratulations. Lotta years since that’s happened.”

Even the Dauntless Initiates blanched at that.

“Dauntless-raised to the back, please. Fall in, let’s go.”

Like detergent dropped in milk, the colours moved. The transferring Initiates formed themselves into a row parallel with the edge, a few steps back from it. As usual, black and white were the overwhelming majority of transfers; there were only two in blue, two in yellow, one in grey.

“Welcome to Step Two,” Garrett said, with a smile in his eyes that suggested he enjoyed the quivering expressions amongst them. The Cavalry remained unreadable. Fitz heard the boy from Erudite mutter something next to him. He hoped it wasn’t meant for him, but in any case, he didn’t dare attempt to ask to have it repeated, even in the off chance that words made it past his terror. Garrett continued:

“This is your gateway into Dauntless. You jump in; you make it to the next round. You don’t? Well, then you don’t belong in Dauntless. Any questions?”

Garrett ran his eye down the line. Simmons’ hand twitched at her side. Questions flowed through her like blood. She only had to open her mouth and something intelligible would come out. But with eyes like that, he might punch her in the face for it.

“You.”

 _Oh no._ The questions deserted her. All words deserted her. She glanced down in terror at her fingers, which were all but clawing at her blazer sleeves in panic. She hadn’t raised her hand after all.

“Why do the transfers have to jump first?” It was one of the Amity boys who had beaten her to it. “Have the Dauntless already done this?”

“No, but they’ve done stuff like this before. They grew up in it. It’s not as much of a leap – if you’ll pardon the pun – for one of them to do it, instead of one of you. Plus, they almost always make it. Not all the transfers do. You guys get three chances, if it makes you feel any better. That lot don’t.” Garrett paused long enough for the Amity to open his mouth, and then jumped in again, running his critical gaze over everyone as he spoke. “I don’t wanna hear a word about how fair this is or isn’t. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t even get the chances, but we’re getting more transfers and the system’s trying to deal with it. Recommendation comes straight from Erudite. Got a problem with that, Amity?”

“N-no sir.”

Fitz’ gut twisted. Frankly, he was impressed that the Amity was even holding eye contact. He was impressed for himself, too, that he was managing to not only stand but to keep his chin up despite his quivering knees and light-headedness. Perhaps this was another reason they put the Dauntless-born behind the newcomers: it was enormously less intimidating this way. But he had the Amity to thank for a large portion of that; for keeping the attention off him, and for delaying that moment he would have to step up to the edge and face his decision for the incredible risk it really was.

“What’s your name?” Garrett asked the Amity.

“Lincoln, sir.”

“Come on up, Lincoln.”

“No, sir.”

“What was that? You want to go first?"

Lincoln cleared his throat spoke louder. “No sir, I do not.”

“Ooooooh,” one of the Dauntless taunted. The others laughed. _Original,_ Simmons thought. If her heart hadn’t been so distractingly loud and her limbs tingling with fear, she might have rolled her eyes. Instead she locked her jaw tight, as Garrett looked the transfers over. Then, hands on his belt, Garrett sauntered up to Lincoln, and leaned his face so close he could have put Lincoln’s eye out with his chin. It was all Simmons could do to stop herself trembling.

“How far do you think you’ll get in Dauntless with that attitude, Amity?”

 _Straight ahead,_ _Jemma, straight ahead._ She could hear Lincoln’s breath shaking.

“Lost your voice now?” Garrett pressed, “or are you trying to meditate your way through this? I said step up.”

“I’ll do it.”

Simmons was immensely glad for the interruption, because she’d finally jumped and Garrett would have turned on her, if not for the quiet voice down the other end of the line. Like a hungry wolf, the Dauntless mentor stalked towards it.

“Was that- Abnegation? Was that you?” Garrett laughed, and a few of the Dauntless joined in. “Hm, I saw you checking out the jump earlier. Unusually keen, for a Stiff. I like it. Let’s see what you got.”


	4. Three

_Dauntless_

Fitz crept up to the edge of the roof. He tried to remember how good it had felt when he’d heard that little drop of blood sizzle into the Dauntless flames. He’d waited so long to make this choice. But, staring down into the darkness, the atmosphere had been sucked away. What was breathing? How were his legs still holding him up? His head spun. He backed away from the edge.

 _Stiff_ , they muttered, laughing. He curled his fingers in the sleeves of his cardigan. Where his heart was supposed to be, it felt like there was a gaping hole. Like it was sucking him in piece by piece. He was starting to wish it would hurry up. If he didn’t jump soon, he’d wash out – but then, if he did, he’d quite possibly break his neck.

“Noble and ineffectual,” Garrett assessed. “A true Abnegation. Think they’ll take you back, Stiff?” He chuckled and turned to the crowd. “Anyone else want to try? Feeling brave? I will start picking people. We haven’t got all day.”

Seconds passed in silence. Garrett pursed his lips. Put his hands on his hips. Hung his head and then lifted it again.

“Alright-“

“Excuse me.” The girl in the blue blazer had a small voice, but it was enough to interrupt their mentor. He gave an approving, bordering on impatient nod as she tugged her lapels and came forward.

“Get on with it, then.”

Simmons gave Fitz a hesitant smile as she stepped up to the edge. His heart returned to his chest, and suddenly he felt the weight of the ground beneath his feet. He smiled back. Simmons nodded, encouraging, and then closed her eyes. Her whole body trembled as she felt the strength of the wind buffeting against her. Then she let herself fall into darkness. Fitz ran after her without thinking. He stumbled to a halt at the edge again. His heart turned to stone. Gravel crunched in footsteps behind him.

“Three strikes, Stiff.”

“But that was only-“

“You were taking too long. Things change. Get on with it or get out.”

 _Oh, Lord._ He swallowed hard. He forced his arms to his side and shuffled the last few inches to the very edge. Maybe if he stood there long enough the wind would just knock him and the decision would be made for him. He glanced back at the Dauntless waiting. Some of them watched with ridicule, others with respect, even concern. He wished he could remember how words worked. Not that he knew what he’d say.

_This is the end. I’m going to be dead or Factionless in three – two –_

Someone threw a brick wall at his back. That’s what it felt like, at least. And then he was falling. He felt the wind shoving at him. It was like swimming in porridge. He couldn’t control his limbs. He could see a net racing up toward him, its big, heavy cords threatening to break almost as many bones as the floor would.

_Roll._

He wasn’t sure if it was his own head, or somebody else, but his limbs seemed to obey before his mind could finish thinking about it. The ropes cut and bruised him, but as he staggered away from the net, he felt nothing but relief. One of the Dauntless leaders – a tall blonde woman with fierce eyes - put a hand against his shoulder to stop his directionless, endorphin-fuelled stagger.

“Well done,” she said. “You had us worried for a minute there, Leopold - or is it Leo?”

“It’s – ah – it’s Fitz.” He couldn’t stop himself smiling. And now his heart was back again, and racing. The Dauntless leader gave him a brief smile, before turning aside. Following her gaze, he turned to see the brick wall that must have hit him. He had black hair, just a little messy, like it was supposed to look like that. His shirt was a little too small – or maybe that was just by Abnegation standards, because it did an excellent job of showing off the muscled torso of its wearer.

“What’s your name?” the Dauntless leader questioned.

"Grant Ward, ma’am.” The brick wall nodded stiffly. He stood as straight as a rod; hands behind his back; chin strong.

“Did you know that helping another Initiate jump is against the rules?”

“It was a risk I was willing to take, ma’am.”

The Dauntless leader pursed her lips. She scrutinised Ward’s expression. Then she looked back at Fitz, who was still staring at his saviour with wide eyes and an increasingly loose jaw. He saw her looking, and hurried to compose himself, blushing furiously.

“You both pass. Well done.” She nodded them through to the next room. Ward tried to catch Fitz’ eye as they followed her direction, but the Abnegation initiate hid his face.

\--

_Candor_

“So. You stayed.”

Skye sighed, and turned to face the voice. She dragged herself off the balcony and came inside, taking the drink Hunter offered her as she passed.

“Yeah,” she said, in a tone that made him raise an eyebrow.

“Regretting it?”

Skye shrugged. “I don’t think I could have picked better. This is the best way to lay low. Plus, no-one will suspect Candor to be harbouring social deviants and cyber-terrorists. It’s interesting, don’t you think, that justice and honesty were paired up? Why not honesty and bravery?”

“Does your brain ever stop?” Hunter’s tone was scolding, but he smiled. “I know, I know – ‘Truth, like a wild animal, is too powerful to remain caged.’”

Quoting the Candor manifesto, he affected her accent, and added a feminine tone far more breathy and sultry than hers, or so she hoped. She snorted with laughter and tried his.

“Bloody hell, mate, I don’t sound like that!”

Hunter grimaced in not-entirely-mock offence. “How dare you make me hear that with my own ears?“

“I’m sorry.” She was giggling so much, the authenticity was difficult to detect. Hunter rolled his eyes.

“No, but seriously,” Skye insisted, sobering quickly as she dropped herself into the seat opposite his. “I thought at first it might just be the Choosing on my mind, but watching it just made it even worse. Doesn’t it ever bother you, the way they’ve divided us up?”

“Not really. It’s a bit superficial, sure, but it gets the job done. People get fed, taught, not killed very often. It works. You know I’m not a fan of the specifics, but the Faction system as a whole isn’t that bad. People have Aptitude; they get put where they’ll help society most. Makes sense to me.”

“How do you ‘help society’?” On her way to popping the top off her bottle, Skye made quotation marks in the air with her fingers.

“People don’t exactly hand themselves over to be injected with Loose Juice, Skye.”

“Candor do.”

“Most Candor do,” he corrected her. “But hardly anyone else does. Why would you? Abnegation – nobody will turn you in. Dauntless – nobody will pull you up. Erudite – nobody has to know. And Amity mostly just don’t want us involved in their whole reconciliation thing. Trust me, you tell someone you’re about to stick a needle in them that’ll help them spill their deepest darkest? You can expect some pretty heavy resistance.”

“Fair enough, though,” Skye reasoned. “About to be exposed like that? With such a big audience? And Candor aren’t exactly the least judgemental types. Under the circumstances, I can see why people who haven’t lived with the truth are hesitant to embrace it.”

“And people who’ve lived with the wrong truth?” Hunter raised an eyebrow.

Skye sighed. “Look, nobody knows, I swear. The system is set up to tell me who is listening, and who’s engaging with the broadcast – that means recording, tracking, anything. Nobody’s onto me.”

“I wasn’t talking about that.”

“Then what were you talking about?” Her eyes narrowed. They’d been down this road before.

“I’m worried that you chose to stay here,” Hunter insisted. “I really don’t think it was your safest choice. I’m just trying to look out for you. People here ask questions, they push. And they believe that Divergence is wrong. One Divergent – especially one that’s been lying about it her whole life, to them – is hardly going to change that. You can’t pretend that you know what they’re going to do.”

“Technically, I’ve only been lying to them since five hours ago…Mm, maybe seven.” She shrugged.

“Skye.” Hunter pinched his nose. “Skye. This is _serious_. They could _kill_ you. And Sarah –‘d you ever think about her? She covered up for you. She’s complicit now.”

“She offered!”

“She’s Abnegation! Of course she offered! _You_ took advantage of that.”

“Would it have been better to leave the Divergent result in the system?”

“We can’t know what would have been better.”

“No, we can’t. I chose Candor. I’m staying. And I’m Divergent, and I can’t change that. If you want to stay away from me, I get it, but-“

“I’m not staying away. Not ever. You’re stuck with me til they bleed us both dry.”

He held his bottle out to her, and Skye reached across the space to clink it, blinking just a little more frequently than usual.


	5. --

 

_\-- Broadcasting: Rising Tide --_

 

_So, another Choosing is over. Another generation of our young people have chosen their futures, their places in our world._

_From today onward, there will be almost zero interaction between transferring Initiates and their birth Factions. They will be trained in their new Factions, for jobs in their new Factions, where their only workmates will be from their new Factions. Sixteen years of growing up will be overwritten as they will eat, sleep, and breathe their new Factions - only the first or second Factions, out of five, which they have ever had the chance to know._

_And it gets worse._

_For some, even making this choice will not be enough._

_The Amity? The Abnegation? They are forgiving. If you act selfishly, or aggressively, there’s still a pretty good chance that you can be forgiven if you change your ways, even after Initiation. But Dauntless? In Dauntless, the whole point of Initiation is to cut the lowest scoring Initiates from their ranks. Those who are cut, become Factionless. If they’re lucky. And despite recent changes to the first stage of Initiation, the Dauntless-born and transferring Initiates are ranked, and cut, together._

_Dauntless Initiates, if you’re out there, good luck._

_Dauntless transfers, if you’re out there, watch your backs._


	6. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and comments so far, guys, I'm so glad you like it! This chapter was one of my favourites to write so far ... bit of fluff, bit of intrigue ... hope you enjoy it!

_Dauntless_

The singlet they gave him was itchy. Not by the material’s own fault; it just felt strange to have something so close to his skin, and the absence of fabric against his arms made him feel naked. He loved the jacket though. He had spent far too long in front of the mirror (which they used every day here), staring at the way it cut his form. It made him want to walk with his chin up. It made him feel like he could do anything.

“You done, peacock?”

Blushing furiously, Fitz backed away from the mirror. Ward – the brick wall – grinned at him, teasing. Ward was already dressed. He leant into the mirror space for a second, ruffled his hair, and was done.

“Come on. We should get down to breakfast.”

“Breakfast is a fight now?” Fitz groaned silently.

“First in, best dressed, like everything else around here. Get used to it. It’s good though. You like eggs? Bacon? Sausage?”

The Abnegation’s eyes sparkled dreamily. Ward shook his head.

“Wow. Have you eaten those, ever?”

“We have egg sometimes.”

Ward slapped Fitz’ shoulders and hopped past him down the stairs. Fitz trailed him until they reached the bottom, where a myriad of warm, salty smells and crackling sounds filled his senses. He slipped under Ward’s arm and stood up with a loose jaw.

“Welcome to a new world, buddy,” Ward offered. “Stick with me and I will make sure you get one of everything. One time offer.”

A few minutes later, Fitz was hunched jealously over a pile of breakfast food higher than he’d ever seen in his life. His stomach growled loudly as he set it on the table, and tried to pick a place to start. Pancakes? Bacon?

Suddenly, a fork snaked across the table and pinched a sausage.

“Hey!” He glared, following the thief’s arm up to their face. The Erudite girl, Simmons, smiled over a full mouth and waved the rest of the sausage at him. She swallowed and said,

“It’s a system. Catch up, Stiff.”

Fitz’ brain took a moment to process. In place of the crisp button-up from the day before, she had a loose T-shirt with a looped neckline and a jacket like his, hanging from her shoulders, a little too big. Her hair was loose and wavy, roughly cut just below her chin, layered, and shining with something. But as her teasing words turned into excited babble, her voice sounded the same. Fitz relaxed into his seat a little.

“Besides,” she went on, “you could never eat all of that yourself. Your stomach simply wouldn’t handle it, given the diet you’ve been on for most if not all of your life. And even if you could eat it all, that much protein and salt and fat all at once is going to be a terrible shock to your system. You’ll make yourself sick, and we start training today.”

Her eyes narrowed on Ward, who was sitting beside Fitz with a substantially less piled plate.

“Are you trying to sabotage him?”

“What?” Ward frowned.

“What?” Pieces of scrambled eggs flew from Fitz’ lips, to Simmons’ obvious displeasure. She crinkled up her nose. Fitz wiped his mouth and swallowed.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just, Ward helped me jump the other day. I don’t see why he would have done that then just to sabotage me now. If he wanted me out of competition, he could have just waited til Garrett tossed me. Um-“ he turned to Ward. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“No problem.” Ward shrugged. “Garrett was outta line. You were supposed to get your three shots. Wait, this is the girl you chased, isn’t it? The Erudite? Jemma, right?”

_The girl you chased._ Simmons felt a blush creeping up her cheeks.

“Yes. Ward, isn’t it? We met on the train.” She tried to focus on cutting a slice off her pancake until the blush passed, but the raucous crowd around her shortly proved much more enticing. She scouted the nearby Dauntless for syrup or butter, and let the wide eyes of the Abnegation boy across the table drift to the back of her mind.

 

Fitz didn’t mean to stare, but Simmons barely seemed to notice him looking on, so eventually, he let himself observe. The blazer, the neatness, the nose crinkle, gave him the impression that Simmons – or Jemma, as she was apparently calling herself now - was a prim and proper girl, but she seemed to have embraced the Dauntless now, in more ways than dress. Amidst the jostling at the table, Simmons was smiling and laughing, and plucking the odd thing from somebody’s plate when they weren’t paying attention. Watching her work made Fitz happy, despite the crowd’s incessant noise and movement making his ears buzz and his stomach twist. He did miss how quiet Abnegation was. He sighed then, thinking of home. Thinking of his mother. _She’d had tears in her eyes._

“Hey! Fitz!”

Simmons’ voice cut through the crowd like a bell. She smiled at him from across the table. Dauntless clambered around her like carrion birds, tossing a ball of some kind around the lunchroom, but her eyes were only on him. Her light hair and bright eyes almost made him forget the rest of the room full of people.

“It’s Fitz, right?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“I notice things. Erudite.” She went to tug at her lapels, only to realise that the cut of the Dauntless jacket and the way it hung were all wrong. “Plus, you, ah – you told me, the other day.” She let her hands drop, with a little pout of embarrassment at her failed delivery, that seemed so childish to such a proper voice that he had to laugh.

“Don’t feel bad.” He nodded at the jacket. “I like it. It suits you.”

“Yeah, well. It wasn’t supposed to be mine. It was Turgeon’s.” She glanced down at it again, and her expression became a little sadder. “Uh, sorry, Turgeon was the other- the boy from Erudite. I didn’t know him or anything. It’s…it’s stupid.”

“It’s not.” Fitz reached across the table and put his hand over hers. She flinched and he drew back.

“Oh, I’m sorry-”

“No, it’s okay, I just – I mean, you pulled back the other day. I just thought maybe Stiff- I mean Abnegations…Abnegation people? Didn’t like to be touched?”

“Well I guess I’m not all Abnegation am I?”

There was a dark sparkle of curiosity in her eyes at that. It gave him pause, and he tasted that same metallic anticipation he had done when Andrew had first told him of his result. He should have said, 'not really Abnegation,' but he hadn’t. And he didn’t mind that he hadn’t. In that moment, he wasn’t even sure he would mind if she knew. But just in case, he bit his tongue to stop himself confirming any suspicions she might have.

She didn’t ask, either. She wasn’t even looking at him anymore. She hadn’t noticed, then, or else she was intentionally not following it up - both of which were weird, for an Erudite. But maybe she’s not all Erudite. His heart started pounding harder at the thought. He could hear it in his ears. Years of resisting the urge to ask questions sent the words screaming to his tongue, and because they were here and she was Erudite, he let some slip out.

“What happened to Turgeon?”

Before she could answer, though - or even definitively indicate that she’d heard him - a loud banging of metal on metal called everyone’s attention to the platform above them. The female instructor who’d supervised their jumps with Garrett stood mute beside a dark-skinned man with an eye patch, a scar, and a gnarled veteran’s posture. He introduced himself as Fury, and introduced the woman as the Cavalry. Fitz couldn’t help but wonder why Dauntless had such bizarre titles. At least his was part of his real name, but the Cavalry?

At that moment, someone slipped onto the bench beside Simmons, bearing a tray of hamburgers. Though she was smiling, she already had that Dauntless sharpness in her expression, mirroring their mysterious mentor. She looked almost too old to be an Initiate, but Ward’s nod and smile of greeting suggested he was at least familiar, if not friends, with her. Perhaps one grew up faster in Dauntless than in other Factions, Fitz mused.

“She used to be Amity,” the Dauntless girl whispered, pushing the hamburgers into the centre of the table and gesturing with her head up at the Cavalry. Simmons’ eyes lit up and she leant toward the Dauntless, abandoning the welcome speech for the new information.

“Really?” she said, tearing part off a patty. “That’s amazing.” Aside, to Fitz and Ward, she explained – “Amity transfers to Dauntless have notoriously low success rates – even lower than Abnegation, if you could believe it – it’s remarkable that she would have made it across, let alone climbed the ranks so quickly...”

She turned her attention back to the Dauntless, and the loud welcome speech – not to mention, the ceaseless, dizzying buzz of the crowd - drowned most of their conversation before it reached Fitz’ ears. He watched though; partly trying to lip-read, and partly trying to recall if the Dauntless had ever given her name. There was something familiar in the way she’d let her hair grow long, cut it straight and left it plain, and with the way she played with her fingers on the table in front of her, as if she wasn’t quite sure of herself. Perhaps she was too old to be an Initiate after all, and just hadn’t quite shaken the habits of her old faction yet. Another Abnegation transfer, perhaps? Or maybe she was worried about something else. Her eyes darted to Simmons’ jacket every now and then, and Fitz wondered.

_What happened to Turgeon?_


	7. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support! I'm glad you like it : ) This chap: enter Erudite stage left ...

_Candor_

“What is your first name?”

“Skye.”

“And what is your last name?”

“Only name. No family, no family name to inherit.”

“You gave yourself the name Skye?”

“Well, the name they gave me at the orphanage was ‘Mary Sue Poots,’ so…” She rolled her eyes, and the test conductor chuckled.

“Wish I’d thought of that,” he said as he marked her off. “Jonathan Samuel Billius Koenig. Nice to meet you.”

She snorted with laughter, and he smiled.

“Okay, Skye. I guess we’ve already taken care of the ‘immediate family’ question…sorry about that, by the way. Although, most orphans end up in Abnegation, don’t they? What’s the story there?”

“I don’t know much of it.” That much at least, she could honestly say. She hoped he wouldn’t question her research methods, though. “I guess, basically, I showed Aptitude from an early age and someone wanted me raised right.”

“So you talked back to your teachers?”

“And got into fights. And bit a girl, once. But ‘talking back’ works.” She smiled bitterly. Oh, the joy of revealing secrets. Still, if she expected it from others – and she did – it was only fair.

“Who raised you?” Koenig asked.

“I bounced around. Haven’t lived anywhere more than two years. Sometimes I think I’d have been better off in Abnegation – they’re more charitable down there, y’know? Probably would have let me stay no matter how much of a pain I was. Not fair on them, I guess, but still, it would have been nice to have a home, y’know?”

The rawness of years of rejection pulled the words off her tongue as much as the serum did. She bit her lip, wishing she could take some of it back, but this was Candor. This was what life was here. _The truth hurts in more ways than one,_ Hunter would tell her, in moments like this. He’d put an arm around her, calm her down, make her feel warm and welcome (and then he’d glare and throw the nearest thing at her when she quoted him later while affecting an air of wisdom). She laughed to herself at the thought, and felt herself relax. The serum wanted her to; relaxation was most conducive to telling the truth. Like being drunk, it lowered ones inhibitions.

_That’s all it does, right?_

A flicker of fear. It was all she needed to keep her on her toes. To wonder, why did she keep coming back to Hunter? And how much did they know about him? About their relationship? And what would they do to him, if she got herself into trouble? _Don’t mention Hunter_ , she resolved. _Don’t mention Hunter._ She bit the inside of her cheek and forced her breathing to steady as the serum burned in her veins, trying to force his name out of her. Thankfully, Koenig asked another question before it could succeed.

“Why not choose Abnegation then?”

 _Don’t sigh, don’t look relieved_. Skye fidgeted in her seat.

“I wouldn’t fit there. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being selfish. I don’t think I could live happily or at my best without ambition or pride. Kudos to those who can, of course, but it’s just not really my style.”

“What I mean is,” Koenig specified, “why Candor? Why are you here?”

 _Don’t mention Hunter._ “It’s home.”

Koenig eyed the monitor.

“It’s…the only home I’ve ever known,” Skye amended. Koenig pursed his lips, humming to himself, and marked off another question on the sheet.

\--

Lance Hunter crossed his arms and leant back against the wall, letting his eyes wander over the crowd. Skye had a point. The very design of the room was hostile: a raised platform with nowhere to hide, surrounded by layers and layers of chairs, not always full, but always staring into the centre. Though he fully understood the intention and the symbolism of it – truth, openness, visibility, and all that jazz - he had to admit to himself that he would really hate to be up there. It would take a good few Peacekeepers to make him go.

A chill ran through him at the thought. His hands crept closer to his elbows and wrapped around the soft flesh there. He hadn’t felt the bite of the serum needle in so many years, but he could still remember the sting.

_“We thank-“_

“We thank you for your candor.”

Hunter leapt to attention as people began to file out of their seats. Hartley and Idaho moved to collect the confessor from the dais, but before Hunter could help them, he was distracted by a flash of blue amid the crowd. He peered after it, but it disappeared in the black and white.

“Oi!” Hartley yelled.

Shaking it off, Hunter joined her at the dais. The confessor was a Dauntless this time, and it was protocol to have at least three Peacekeepers on any Dauntless, but Hunter had to feel sorry for the poor bastard being escorted out alone, head hung, tears streaming down his face.

“Geez,” he muttered to Hartley as they fell into a three-point formation around the Dauntless to escort him out. “What happened to this guy?”

Hartley raised an eyebrow at him like a slap to the back of the head. “Lance Hunter: Enforcer of Justice and Professional Daydreamer.”

“Shut up. What happened?”

“He’s Divergent. We’re handing him over to Erudite this afternoon.”

Hunter’s foot hung in the air just a moment too long. The Dauntless walked into his back and sent him stumbling forward. Idaho stepped forward, moving to pull the Dauntless away, but Hunter waved him down, murmuring an absent apology as he resumed formation position.

As they crossed the foyer, Gonzales, the coordinator of the Peacekeepers, called him aside. His mind still stumbling over the news – and over the image of a Dauntless in tears – Hunter was grateful for the distraction. He was not grateful, however, to see the ring of faces that surrounded Gonzales, awaiting him - or, more specifically, to see the patches of blue (a tie, a pocket-square, and a brooch) that shone out on their otherwise Candor-compatible ensembles.

“This is Corporal Lance Hunter,” Gonzales introduced. “He’s one of our best Peacekeepers. Corporal, this is Mr Sunil Bakshi, and Doctors Richard Whitehall, and Anne Weaver. They came to observe today’s trial as part of the D-A-P Initiative.”

“D-A-P?”

“Divergence Awareness Programme,” Doctor Weaver explained. “It’s only just getting off the ground now. There’s still a lot of research to be done before our official report is produced, and we believe your faction will be of great use to that research.”

“We’d like to see any records you have of Divergents coming through your doors in recent years,” Doctor Whitehall continued. “Frequency, conviction rates, that sort of thing. And if you’ve coordinated with the Dauntless on any missions related to Divergents, that information would also be much appreciated. All of us here know the Dauntless don’t have the most…effective…filing method.”

“They don’t have one at all,” Hartley snorted. Hunter all but jumped out of his boots. Damn, he was edgy today. Skye and her bloody conspiracy theories.

“We’ll get right on that,” he said, recovering quickly enough to cut Hartley off before she could make any more sarcastic comments. He could feel himself sweating. “I’ll bring some boxes over this afternoon or tomorrow.”

“Thank you very much,” Weaver said. Her watch beeped, and a tiny blue holographic clock appeared, buzzing at her. She blew on it, and it disappeared and fell silent. “Well then, with that, I’m afraid we must be off to prepare for our new arrival. Unless you have questions?”

“None.” Sweating, sweating. With Hartley, a trained observer, standing inches away from him, no less. It took concentrated effort to keep his fingers still as Weaver held out a periwinkle blue business card.

“Well, if you think of any.” She waited for him to stiffly take the card before turning on her heels and heading for the doorway. Whitehall nodded crisply and followed inches behind. Bakshi spared a moment, though, to fix surprisingly intense eyes on Hunter’s face. Hunter found himself holding his breath until the last of the Erudite had passed through the door and out into the courtyard.

“You feeling okay, Corporal?” Hartley asked.

Hunter shook his head.


	8. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Previously)
> 
> A few minutes later, Fitz was hunched jealously over a pile of breakfast food higher than he’d ever seen in his life. His stomach growled loudly as he set it on the table, and tried to pick a place to start. Pancakes? Bacon?
> 
> ...
> 
> “You could never eat all of that yourself," Simmons said. "Your stomach simply wouldn’t handle it, given the diet you’ve been on for most if not all of your life. And even if you could eat it all, that much protein and salt and fat all at once is going to be a terrible shock to your system. You’ll make yourself sick, and we start training today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't post at the beginning of the week, guys, I was really sick :( Plus, not gonna lie, I was super nervous about this chapter. Heads up, there is a panic attack depicted this chap. Obviously, it's fictionalised, but I am NOT trying to glorify it or make it cute or anything like that. I hope that comes through. Anyway - onwards! -

 

> VI <

_Dauntless_

“How’re you going?”

Fitz groaned. He’d hardly been able to stand up straight for the last three hours, and she knew it. Simmons grinned down at him.

“Honestly,” she continued. “I’m impressed you haven’t vomited yet. I would have. Of course, I wouldn’t have been stupid enough to eat so much in the first place, but –“

Though his hands were shaking and his head starting to spin, Fitz took a great deal of pleasure in grabbing Simmons’ ankle, pulling it out from under her, and hearing the surprised squeak as she collapsed to the mat. She kicked out in return, and forced his knees to fold before he could even stand properly. Then she tackled him, and the two of them tumbled a few times, until he slipped his knees either side of her hips and sat on her, anchoring her to the floor.

“Damn it.”

He pinned her arms above her head.

“Well done,” May murmured, strolling past them. She paused by their side. Fitz looked up at her. He’d never had anyone tell him well done, before, that he could remember. Praise was not the done thing in Abnegation, and it was actively avoided in his house. His stomach churned, its ache turning back into nausea. Though he was sitting almost on the ground, it felt like he was suddenly floating.

_No, no no no. Not here. Not now._

He reached blindly for the mat, or for the cold hard earth; for something that was less forgiving and more grounded than Simmons’ body.

As soon as her arms were free, Simmons grabbed his shoulders and twisted him off her. She landed a second later on top of him, with one knee pressed into the gap below his rib cage, the other holding his legs down, and one hand at his throat while the other pinned his wrists as far above his head as she could reach without falling off balance. And if he’d heard correctly, she’d actually let out a tiny little growl. Now, her face was only inches away from his, and bearing a hidden, mischievous grin.

“Simmons-“ he hissed, struggling under her weight as the world spun. “I’m not-“

“Regret it yet?” she teased. She dug her knee into his stomach. He let out a satisfyingly twisted yelp, and gasped.

“Simmons, get off!”

“Jemma,” she corrected, “and you brought this on yourself.”

“No-“

Miraculously, he didn’t vomit, but the world went dark, and he could feel the bruises and smell his own breath coming back to him, hidden under the covers.

“Fitz?” The grin dropped from Simmons’ face, and she scrambled off him. “I- I’m sorry. Please get up.”

His eyes stared up at her, distant but terrified. As she watched, he whimpered, and cowered under his hands. Her own heart starting to race, Simmons looked around for help. Nobody seemed to have noticed yet - or maybe they just thought she’d kneed him too hard, or in too sensitive a place -

“What’s going on over here?”

_Did it have to be Garrett?_ Simmons struggled to find words that would get Fitz help, while keeping both of them out of trouble.

“Today, Four Eyes,” Garrett growled. “Did you break something? Hey, Stiff! You still with us?”

Distantly, Fitz could hear Garrett shouting. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out. Trying to remember that sound, of blood hitting flames, of making a choice for himself. But what kind of an idiot Abnegation chooses Dauntless? He couldn’t fight then and he couldn’t fight now. His only option was to curl up and concede defeat. Factionless, that’s what he was – what he deserved to be. His limbs trembled. The sound of utensils clamouring kept his heart hammering at full speed. Somewhere, a mirror broke. He wished he could have vomited.

 

Simmons tried to approach again, but Garrett held his arm out, blocking her. She bit her nail, swallowing down the anxiety as they waited for Fitz to uncurl, or at least respond. By now, Garrett’s shouting had drawn the attention of the other Initiates, and they were beginning to gather around to watch.

_Please get up._

She could feel Fitz’ point score slipping. He’d be lucky if he didn’t outright fail, especially since Garrett seemed to dislike him so much. She wished she could at least get close to him to check him out: to get some idea of if he was okay, or of what she’d somehow done to him.

Then it occurred to her, that she’d found a risk she was willing to take.

Drawing herself up tall, she walked around Garrett’s arm. Her heart was pounding, but she kept her posture strong as she walked calmly – almost cracking her teeth with the effort – to Fitz’ side and knelt. She checked his pulse: heart racing, somewhere around 180, 200 bpm? Maybe more? It seemed to scream at her, and the way he was shaking wasn’t making things any easier. All of a sudden she wished she’d taken paramedicine back at home. How long could he sustain this? She had no idea. His breath came in tiny, frightened snorts. She shook his shoulder, and then squeezed it, and he only curled up tighter.

“I think he’s having a panic attack,” she whispered.

“What was that?”

Simmons looked toward the voice. It was the Cavalry. Not the first words she’d spoken all day, but close to.

“He’s um.” Simmons cleared her throat, clenched a fist, and spoke louder. “He’s having a panic attack. He can’t get up. He needs help.”

Tight-lipped, and with the slightest of frowns, the Cavalry nodded. Garrett sighed.

“Alright, fine. Leave him this mat. The rest of you – including you, Four Eyes – move over here and we’ll get on with things.”

Simmons glanced over her shoulder at Fitz, who was still shaking, still curled up and alone. Then she swallowed hard, and moved with the sea of black, to pick up two rods of dowel and begin to practice the movements Garrett was demonstrating.

 

At dinner, their table was quiet. Fitz looked over his shoulder. Only some of the Dauntless at the next table over hid their faces upon meeting his gaze. Some of them stared, curious or pitying, but some peered hungrily at him. He could feel his bones crunching under their ambitious hands.

“Hey, don’t pay any attention to them.” Simmons reached across the table, pulling his attention back to her. “They’re just being cruel, trying to scare you.”

“No, they’re being _strategic,_ ” Fitz corrected her. He sighed, dropped his fork and hid his face. “I’m sorry. That was so embarrassing.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“There’s nothing you could have done,” Ward assured him.

“Which means it could happen again,” Fitz pointed out. “What if it happens next time? What if it happens when it actually matters? Today was just the beginning and Jemma – I’m sorry, but you’re hardly the toughest this competition has to offer. I’m screwed. This was a mistake.”

“Half the people here are thinking that exact thing,” Simmons assured him. “...Probably.”

“That’s comforting,” Ward remarked sarcastically, shooting Simmons an incredulous glare.

“Well I’m hardly going to lie to him to make him feel better!” she exclaimed, defensive. “That doesn’t serve any purpose at all! And Fitz, all I meant was that I don’t know for certain what’s in everybody else’s heads, but-“

“What about you?” Fitz challenged. “Do you think it’s a mistake for you to have joined? And you, Ward? Do you regret staying?”

When neither responded, he shook his head.

“There’s a reason there are no disabled people in Dauntless. If you can’t hold your own, you get thrown out. Special consideration only gets you so far. Garrett would have thrown me out today if the Cavalry hadn’t been there. I should just drop out now and save everybody the trouble. And save him the victory.”

“Garret’s a dick.”

Somebody slipped into the seat beside Fitz, and he jumped.

“Sorry, man.” The newcomer had a short beard – more like long stubble – and eyes that seemed to smile when his mouth did. He was weedy, not Dauntless-born, and familiar.

“Lincoln?”

“Yep, that’s me. Nice to finally meet the guy who saved my ass.” He held his hand out to Fitz, who shook it.

“Call me Fitz. This is Ward, and Sim- ah, Jemma.”

“Nice to meet you. So is this the transfer corner, or..?”

“Nah, Ward’s Dauntless.”

“Hi,” Ward put in. Lincoln paused and looked him up and down, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Hanging with the plebs,” he said eventually. “Okay. Guess I can get down with that, ‘long as you don’t start slipping poison my food and dragging me out of bed at night.”

Simmons stuffed a forkful of food into her mouth to stop herself commenting on the offended expression on Ward’s face as Lincoln shifted his attention back to Fitz and added the theft of one of Ward’s potatoes to his list of crimes.

“But like I said, Garrett’s a dick.” Lincoln chewed on the potato as he spoke. “And there are disabled people in Dauntless. Gordon’s blind, he seems to be doing okay.”

“He’s not Dauntless though,” Simmons pointed out. “He hasn’t passed. It’s only been two days. I’m not saying it’s not impressive, of course, but-”

“Ever hear of Hawkeye?” Lincoln continued, as if Simmons hadn’t spoken. “Super awesome archer: deaf as a post. Plus, look at Fury. One eye – and, rumour has it, a false leg. He seems to be doing well for himself, if you ask me.”

“Okay, fine.” Fitz huffed at the concessions. “But those are physical disabilities. Two out of three of them happened in fights. And wasn’t Gordon blind since birth? He has no control over that. This is different.”

“But still awful,” Lincoln insisted. “Don’t talk yourself down. And yeah, Gordon’s been blind for a long time, but he’s learnt to work with it. I helped him with that, actually. Back at home I used to do heaps of therapy and counselling. If you like, I can teach you some coping techniques?”

Fitz hung his head and picked at his food with a noncommittal shrug. Lincoln fell silent, unsure what other help he could give. Simmons and Ward, too, appeared unsure of what to say: Ward staring at Fitz, trying to think of something, and Simmons staring at her food, biting things back.

“What…did you…I mean, what did you see?” Simmons asked eventually.

Fitz half-heartedly jabbed at a potato. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sorry.“ Simmons shrunk back. Fitz looked up at her.

“No, I mean…about what I saw,” he explained. “It’s something from home that I want to put behind me, that’s all. I appreciate the concern.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I could teach you the rod moves,” Ward offered. “We’re moving onto knives tomorrow, but there’ll be a lot of overlap.”

“Great idea. I could do with some extra practice,” Lincoln said.

“Me, too,” Simmons agreed.

“Alright, it’s settled. All three of you are getting your asses kicked, by me, after dessert.” Ward grinned and stood up.

“Want anything?” Simmons offered, standing up too.

“God, no.” Fitz shook his head, and smiled.


	9. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!! Sorry to keep you waiting, there were lots of reasons, and it doesn't help that conspiracies are harrrrrrd. Hopefully this is a push in the right direction with detangling on my end, not sure if it's going to clear anything up for you guys but I hope you enjoy it anyway. Things are starting to go down soon so enjoy the fluff & victories while you can.
> 
> PS - I couldn't not make a Daredevil reference when I heard that line. Somebody plz teach Simmons how to fight 2k16

_Dauntless_

“I can’t do this.”

Fitz hissed air through his teeth.

“Yes you can,” Ward assured him. “Just ten more seconds. You can do it.”

He bit his lip; anger and shame and pain bringing tears to his eyes. It felt like he was breathing nothing but concrete dust, his shoulders were burning, and he was starting to shake like a can of soda. He was already pre-empting the scrape of his elbows against the pavement, but it was his hips that gave out in the end.

“Nearly got it that time! Nice job!” Ward praised. Fitz curled up around what was left of his abdominals, which had for all intents and purposes, just been clawed out by a large animal. 

“Everything _hurrrrts_ ,” he moaned. “Everything hurts and I’m dying.”

“You’re not-“ Simmons gave up the effort to correct him, squeezing her eyes shut to focus on her violently trembling core. A moment later, her face crumpled as she fell too. Ward grinned, and she tossed a pebble at him in irritation as she stood, and hobbled over to her bottle of water.

“Don’t I get a ‘nice job’?” she jabbed, breathless, as she stretched her arms above her head and leant over to one side.  
  
Ward shrugged. “You fell because you were being a smart ass. Not bad, but you can do better.”

“ _Not bad?_ Are you serious? _”_ Fitz panted, rolling onto his back to look up at Ward in disbelief. “‘Course you are. ’Mah name is Wahrd an’ I can hold a briyadge so long y’all can drahve a train over it.’”

“Excuse me?” Ward raised an eyebrow. “I do not say ‘y’all’!”

“That’s what y’all think,” Simmons mocked, and giggled into the mouth of her water bottle.

“You guys are really distracting, did you know that?” Breathing hard, Lincoln rolled onto his side. 

“117 seconds,” Ward noted with pride.

“What, really?”

“Yeah. You’re gonna beat out some Dauntless born with a time like that. How’d you do that?”

“Farm boy, remember?” Lincoln panted, gesturing to his biceps. “Digging, lifting. Meditation. Minimal smart-assery.” He grinned at Simmons, who pouted and tossed his water bottle so that it hit the ground and rolled the rest of the way to his elbow.

“Thanks.” He took a grateful gulp.

 

-

_Candor_

Skye’s phone buzzed, and she jumped and bit her tongue to stop herself making a sound. As her heart rate dropped back below 120, she poised her pen back on the page and breathed through it, thinking. Hunter wouldn’t be contacting her in the middle of the day unless it was important, but if the teacher asked why she needed to take the call, the wrist monitor would give away anything that bent the truth too far. She couldn’t give an answer that didn’t sound suspicious. But what if somebody already knew, and Hunter was calling to warn her? A lie wouldn’t help then anyway – but nor, she supposed, would the truth, unless somebody was willing to really, truly listen.

“Skye?”

“Uh.”

The teacher raised her eyebrow. 

“Uh, sorry, could you repeat that, I-uh I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That’s why I called on you.” The teacher smiled with pursed lips. “If statement A says that Tristan is a farmer, and statement B says that all Amities are farmers, does that make statement C true?” 

_C:_ – read the board - _Tristan is Amity._

“No.” 

“Why not?”

“We’re assuming that statement B would mean the same thing the other way around – that all Amities being farmers means that all farmers are Amities.”

“And is that not a true statement?”

“No…t…necessarily.” _Smooth, Skye._ “I mean it depends on your definition of farmer, first of all. I’m sure there are other jobs; you know, maintenance, healers, or admin or something.” 

Satisfied with her save, Skye relaxed a little, but the teacher’s raised eyebrows didn’t move on.

“And second of all?” the teacher prompted.  
  
“Hm?”

“You said ‘first of all.’ That suggests that there’s at least a ‘second of all.’”

“Right. Well, I guess…there could be Divergents in Amity? They wouldn’t technically _be_ Amities, would they, but they would probably still farm, because that’s what Amity does.”

The teacher nodded. “Indeed. Thoroughly considered, Skye.”

The bell rang, and the teacher closed her book.

“So that means the argument is - ?” 

“Both invalid and unsound,” the class chanted.

“Right, thank you! I’ll see you after lunch.” 

Skye breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped out of the classroom. _Damn it, this is exhausting._ She touched her fingers to her pocket, contemplating calling Hunter, but she shouldn’t be overheard saying anything about it. And he would be at work anyway.

“Hey, Skye!” one of her classmates shouted. “Want to have lunch with us?”

_No._

“Be right there!”

Well, it wasn't a lie.

Skye groaned silently at her own answer. The monitor on her wrist was apparently satisfied with it, but it put a sour taste in her mouth. The taste, perhaps, of it being washed out with soap? She didn’t think she’d ever experienced the technique, but maybe she was blocking out some traumatic lessons from Abnegation. As she gathered her things into her bag and trudged after the other Candor toward the Plaza, Skye contemplated her strategies for getting through the upcoming hour of interrogative conversation. In a room full of Candor. While wearing a lie detector. Without letting on the biggest, most dangerous secret she had ever held.

 

-

_Dauntless_

Simmons stared down at her bruised and bloodied hands, and wondered what she wouldn’t give to avoid having to ram them repeatedly into sand-packed canvas bags for the next several hours.

“How’s Fitz?”

Simmons jumped at the seemingly sudden appearance of the benevolent shadow they had for a mentor this afternoon. Then, gathering herself, she turned to face The Cavalry as she continued to strap her hands.

“He’s good. He’s okay,” Simmons shrugged. “He’s had these things for a few years, apparently, so… I mean, of course, he’s worried about how it’ll affect his performance, but apart from that’s he’s fine.”

The Cavalry pursed her lips, and invited Simmons to the nearest punching bag.

“What’s that look for?” Simmons pressed.

“Lincoln offered to teach him meditation. You should encourage him to take that offer up. The next stage is going to be hard on him.”

“Why? What’s the next stage?”  
  
“It requires great control over your mind. Speaking of which.” The Cavalry tapped the punching bag, drawing their attention back to the task at hand. Simmons sluggishly drew her hands into a combat-ready position. The Cavalry frowned.

“Tired?”

“No, ma’am.” Simmons immediately hardened her stance.  
  
“No need to lie about it. Just don’t let it beat you.”

“Okay.” Simmons eyed the Cavalry uncertainly. Was she supposed to drop her hands? The Cavalry’s eyes narrowed, and she guessed that no, she was supposed to start hitting.

Her knuckles met the bag, and it felt like she was putting them through a grater instead. She sucked in a breath and shook her hand out quickly. She could feel the Cavalry frowning, like she was a fifth grader who couldn’t do basic multiplication. 

“Sorry,” she breathed, though apologies didn’t seem to mean much here. She recovered her position and tried a two-hit combination. Tears sprung to her eyes. 

“Okay, stop.”

Her knees nearly gave out with the relief of it, and she gratefully allowed the Cavalry to unwrap one of her hands. Her expression did not change – or at least, Simmons could not see it change from this angle, as she observed the bruises and scrapes that Simmons’ hands had already suffered from all the other training exercises. 

“Hard worker,” the Cavalry mused.

“Thank you.” Simmons bit down on her smile.

“You used to be Erudite, correct?” The Cavalry begun re-wrapping. 

“Yes ma’am.”

“What is your best weapon?”

“Uh…I was pretty good with the batons, I guess?”

“More basic than that. What controls the batons?”

“My arms? My body?” 

“And what controls your body?” 

Simmons eyed the punching bag again, preparing for that crippling pain, already shying away from it. She clenched her fists tighter, feeling the stiff wrapping, feeling the concrete beneath her feet, feeling the sweat on her forehead draw away her exhaustion. She stood stronger just by thinking about it, and all of a sudden, it hit her, where the Cavalry was going with this.

“What controls your body?” the Cavalry repeated. 

“My mind.”

_Thud._ There was more weight to it this time. A droplet of sweat edged its way into her eye, but she blinked it away and glared past it, at the tiny dent her fist had left in the punching bag.

She smiled.


	10. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN ~ After much struggling with several chapters that were giving me trouble (as well as RL, which was also giving me trouble for a while there) I've finally written the next few! but I will be spreading them out so you guys don't have to wait as long for me to pull the next ones together. Hope you like it!

Barrel. Butt. Sight. Chamber, clip, magazine. Trigger, hammer, safety.

Fitz ran his eyes over the parts. He could already see how they would slot together, with different length barrels and bullet containment and delivery mechanisms constructing different types of guns depending on their pattern of assembly. He recalled the ones Garrett had demonstrated, and his mind mapped their designs. On sight, by his reckoning, he could make all bar one of them with what was laid out in front of him.

“Go.”

It only took a few seconds to have an operational weapon. He flicked the safety on and off, cocked it, and pulled the trigger. There were no bullets in the barrel yet, but the tiny _click_ was satisfying. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he let it pull. Though his time in Dauntless had put an ocean between himself and Abnegation, he still was not used to the feeling of pride swelling in his chest. 

“Damn, Stiff,” one of the Dauntless next to him muttered as he lowered his own creation. “That’s actually pretty sweet. Where’d you learn to do that?"

“Didn’t learn,” Fitz replied, turning his hesitant smile into a smirk that made the Dauntless sigh in frustration and turn his attention back to his faulty firing mechanism. Aggressive muttering from the row behind distracted Fitz a moment later, and he dropped his smirk as he turned to find Lincoln cursing quietly at his weapon.

“Let me have a look,” Fitz offered.

Lincoln looked up, startled. His eyes fell to the assembled gun that Fitz held assuredly by his side, and his jaw dropped a little. “You’re finished already?”

Fitz shrugged. “You gonna let me have a look or what?”

With a glance over Fitz’ shoulder to make sure Garrett was sufficiently far off, Lincoln passed his weapon to Fitz and huddled in close as Fitz examined the problem.

“You’ve got that in backwards. See, the, um- the-“ Fitz waved his finger, imitating the thread of a screw. He turned and frowned at Jemma. “Actually, what’s that called?”

“Hm? Oh, the thread.”

“Yeah, the thread.” Fitz smiled to himself as he fixed Lincoln’s weapon, unscrewing the magazine from the barrel, turning it around, and screwing it back on. Lincoln’s eyes glazed in amazement.

“Fitz, I can’t get these to cooperate.” Simmons held out the tiny pieces of the firing mechanism.

“That one goes inside there. Hooks in, like – yeah like that. This piece, see, it connects the trigger part that you actually pull, to the hammer that fires the bullet. Like a lever system. I mean, it is a lever system, I guess.”

Simmons sighed, fitted the pieces together and closed the casing around the trigger. Scowling, she cocked it and fired, and huffed at the successful clicking sound.

“I wish they could have just told us how to do this instead of ‘here’s some stuff, go!’ How is anyone supposed to learn like that? I mean I guess I’m just lucky I’m smart. Actually- how did you know that, Fitz? They didn’t show us the inside.”

Her eyes narrowed in on him: sharp, like the Cavalry’s. She tilted her head, studying his expression, or possibly his mind. ( _Erudite - - - 38%)._ He could feel fresh sweat prickle the back of his neck.

“I- I could just see it. I paid attention.”

“Come on, Dauntless, the Stiff’s got you all out in the cold with no clothes on!”

Garrett’s booming voice made Fitz jump to attention. The mentor wrenched the gun from his hands, turned it for examination, then swiftly injected a bullet into it and fired at a nearby pillar. The sound of exploding concrete would keep Fitz’ teeth clenched for days afterwards, but the nod Garrett gave him made his heart lift a little.

“Alright people, that’s time,” Garrett called. “Pick up what you’ve got and move out. It’s time to light these puppies!”

- 

The bullets pinged off the target. Lincoln pursed his lips.

“You’ve gotta hit it dead on,” Fitz advised. “They’re metal targets with a curved surface. They could ricochet. You could hurt someone.”

“At least you hit it?” Simmons offered.

Lincoln sighed. “I just really…don’t like guns. Maybe I’m too Amity for this.”

“The test is never wrong,” Ward assured him. “You’re meant to be here as much as any of us are. You’re fine in a hand-to-hand fight, right? So what you don’t like about guns is that it doesn’t give the other guy a fair chance. Linc, the other guy’s a piece of metal. If you can’t shoot it properly, you will be thrown out. You’ll be Factionless. It’s you, or him. It’s _you._ Or a _piece of metal.”_

“But why would they shape the metal like a person, unless we were training to shoot people?” Lincoln turned to Fitz, gesturing on the way, to a three-hole bulls-eye in Fitz’ target. “How does an Abnegation pull that off?”

“I just imagine I’m protecting someone I love.”

The words that came out were so innocuous, so separate from the dark feeling that crept over him sometimes, that the smiles the others gave him felt detached, undeserved. He smiled half-heartedly back. After all, it was true, was it not? _If he’d had a gun that day…_

“Is there a problem over here?” 

Fitz swallowed hard as heavy footsteps crunched the gravel behind them.

“No, sir,” Ward said. “No problem.”

Garrett walked straight through his attempt to shield Fitz and Lincoln. 

“You boys? Is there a problem? Amity, this is not the locker room. You should be practicing, not chatting it up with your buddies.”

“Yes sir, of course, sir,” Lincoln apologised, “but Fitz scored a bullseye and he offered me some tips. I thought it would be wise to listen, sir, to improve my own game.”

“Fair enough.” Garrett nodded. “But once a sentence is fine with the ‘sir’ business. You’re not my butler.” 

“Of course s- um. Of course.”

The relief Lincoln felt when Garrett moved away was almost enough to knock him off his feet, but it was short-lived: Garrett moved onto Fitz, towering over him, and Lincoln held his breath. They’d been making a little progress with meditation and grounding, but here and now was not the time or place to test it. 

“You. Stiff. That bullseye yours?”

“Yes s-sir.”

“Are you feeling well?”

Fitz looked up, fear momentarily driven away by surprise. Since when had Garrett cared?

“Sorry, sir?”

“I said, are you feeling well?” Garrett repeated, in a harsh and scolding tone that Fitz recognised all too well. His breath caught in his chest. How could he have mistaken that? 

“I was just wondering what might drive one of the lowest-ranked cadets in this class to believe he could start doing my job for me,” Garrett continued. “Hallucinations, perhaps? Delusions of grandeur?”

Fitz tightened his grip on his weapon, grounding himself as he felt its weight, and the security of the knowledge that he had built it. That he’d been _praised_ for it.

“I- I’m good at shooting, sir,” he pointed out. “I just wanted to help.”

“Good?” Garrett scoffed and raised his eyebrows. He grabbed Fitz’ shoulders, shoving him around to face his target. “I don’t know what participation-ribbon crap they’re handing out in Abnegation, but three out of ten is not _good.”_

“Out of five, actually sir.” 

“Five? You expect me to believe _you_ scored three out of five, your first time out here? Ward, did you help him?”

“No, sir.”

Garrett eyed Ward suspiciously, and then Fitz. Drawing up all the stupid, stupid nerves he could muster, Fitz took a deep breath and said:

“I’d like to finish my shots, sir.”

“Oh, now you would?”

“Like you said, I don’t feel well.” 

Garrett snorted. Frustrated? Amused? It was hard to tell. He watched the muzzle of Fitz’ weapon shake, and then still. Five shots fired off in quick succession. One of them pinged off at an angle, but the other four slashed through the target’s metal flesh, and out the other side.

“Well I’ll be an Amity’s rainbow britches,” Garrett remarked, staring with just a little too much awe, for just a little too long, to pretend he was unaffected. “If this is an off day, I’d hate to catch you on a good one.”


	11. Nine

It was late when Simmons got back to the dorms. It had been a hard day, as well as a long one. The highlights included her rifle jamming, and refusing to un-jam before the Dauntless at her station used up all their ammunition, and later, one of the Candor slashing her arm deeply with a knife. Then she’d had to all but skip dinner to get it stitched up. Now, after scabbing some leftovers from the clean-up crew, she was looking forward to a decent shower. The hot water would be long gone by now, but at this point, she didn’t care. Not feeling like she was made of sweat and concrete dust would be sufficient.

The relative silence of the shower room was surprisingly welcome. Simmons hadn’t realised quite how accustomed she had become to the constant noise and business that seemed to run in Dauntless blood. That she could even drown out the talking from the dorms with the pressure of the tap almost made her moan aloud with satisfaction, despite the bone-chilling temperature of the water.

Simmons gasped as the water bit into her raw skin, but she turned into the stream from the showerhead, and let it run through her hair and over her back, and sighed. She rubbed her hands over her skin, and through the stream directly, finally relaxing as she felt its violent chill cleanse her of what seemed like a whole week’s worth of dirt and sweat, just from today.

“You cut a nice figure, Erudite.” 

Simmons jumped and turned toward the voice, trying to remember where she’d put the scrubbing brush, in case she needed something to throw. But it was the Dauntless from their first breakfast who’d come to join her.

“Kara,” the Dauntless prompted, hanging her jacket on the peg beside Simmons’ before resuming her earlier comment with a smile. “Must be all the night training.”

Simmons blanched. 

“The- the- the what?”

“Chill, Four Eyes. I’m not gonna dob you in. Though it might actually help - Garrett might be impressed by your dedication.” Kara stepped under the neighbouring showerhead and turned it on. She didn’t even flinch at the icy water. “I just meant there’s no other way you could have built that much muscle, or learnt so much, in a few weeks. Even with the night training, it’s impressive. When do you sleep?”

“On the train.” Her voice didn’t quiver, and Simmons almost smiled at herself.

“Seriously?” Kara’s eyebrows rose. “You are a stronger woman than I. Those things are awful. And so is this! Don’t worry though, it’s not for long - I’ve lived here my whole life and _my_ bathroom has _always_ had a door.” 

“Oh, thank God.” A flood of legitimate relief at the thought caught Simmons unawares. Had she really been worried about a bathroom door? Well, no, but being visible 24/7? Maybe that. Everybody knowing what she had done? Every minute of every day? Definitely that. She swallowed hard, as her relief turned back into anxiety.

“Right?” Kara scoffed. “It’s like, sure, they wouldn’t try anything and sure, I like my body most of the time, but believe it or not I would actually prefer to shower with _out_ getting gawked at by a heap of testosterone? And yes I know what testosterone is. I’ve read a book in my lifetime. Pass me the soap?”

Simmons did so, her heart racing. She remembered the blow to the back of Turgeon’s neck as if it was to hers. The way he’d looked at her. The way the Enforcer had peered over her shoulder and looked the tiny, blue-blazered Simmons up and down - proud, or bitterly judgemental?

Simmons looked at the new jacket hanging off her clothes peg, and tried to breathe. The blue blazer was gone. Erudite was behind her, and so was he. And besides, it was the right thing to do.

 _Wasn’t it?_  

“Okay, I get it.” Kara shrugged and turned, massaging soap into her shoulders.

“What?”

“I get it. You don’t want to talk. This is your time, your quiet, I get it.” 

“No, no, I – sorry, I was thinking about something.”

Kara snorted, smiling. “Of course you were. Erudite. You sure you’re in the right place?” 

Simmons smiled weakly back. 

“I guess I’m…more here for phase 2.” 

“Phase 2?” 

“Uh…” In too deep to freeze up, and too exhausted to think of a lie, let alone sell it, Simmons explained. “The Cavalry mentioned it. Something about mental strength? She was quite vague about it.” 

“Are you sure it wasn’t just a speech about persistence or something? She is pretty vague. One-word answers lend themselves to vagueness.”

“No, I’m quite sure she meant something different.” But what? Simmons had never bothered to think about it that specifically. Once she’d managed to get Fitz to commit to Lincoln’s help, she’d let it fade: yet another obstacle she would face when she reached it. Perhaps that had been a mistake. 

“I don’t know…” Kara mused, a warning edge to her tone. “All-in-your-head doesn’t really seem like Garrett’s style.”

Kara put her face into the water stream then, leaving Simmons to think. Simmons waited a while, then turned off the water and changed. Mercifully, heading back into the dorms, she was not hit by an incredible wall of sound; most were quietly training, reciting, or getting ready for sleep.

“Mm. Sleep.” It was satisfying to say out loud as she staggered to her bed. Never had a two-inch piece of foam been so inviting. Simmons dropped like a stone onto the mattress, stuffed her face into the pillow, and was out like a light.

-

It seemed like her eyes were closed only for an instant, before someone kicked the bottom of her bunk so hard she fell out, splayed across the floor. 

“Get up.” 

She did, looking around, her head reeling from the loss of time. She’d heard of the hazing, but this time it wasn’t just her. Shouts, thumps and curses dotted the room as all the initiates were shaken from their beds and to their feet. Simmons tried to find her friends, but they were already being herded out of the dorm, down a passage, toward a new part of the complex.

The end of the line was a big foyer. It was surprisingly done-up: glass windows intact, tiled floors, smooth, light walls, and everything _clean._ More than clean. Pristine. If she didn’t know better – if nothing else, they couldn’t possibly have travelled far enough – Simmons could have sworn they were in an Erudite or Candor building.

“Congratulations,” Garrett said, from somewhere up the front of the crowd, beyond her sight. His voice suggested boredom more than it did praise. “You’ve all survived the first phase.” 

The battered, bruised, exhausted recruits smiled and sighed and gasped and whispered amongst themselves for a few seconds, until Garrett clapped his hands together harshly.

“This is no promise that you will get through into Dauntless. Eliminations have not yet been made. The reduction in numbers is only because some of our friends have decided they are not suited to our lifestyle.”

He sneered. It was hard not to imagine him gleefully throwing the defeated out onto the streets himself.

“This is the second phase,” he continued. “One that requires great _mental_ stamina and strength. Which should give some of us a foot up – “ his eyes trailed slowly over Gordon, and to Fitz. “- Or perhaps it will not. We shall see.”

Simmons’ breath caught in her throat. She remembered all of a sudden, The Cavalry’s warning words. There was nothing to be done now but hope that Fitz and Lincoln had managed to prepare him enough – though for what, she was still at a loss.

“There’s one operator assigned to each of you,” Garrett explained, gesturing to a second crowd; also in black, but mostly unfamiliar. “I don’t expect each one to be returned in mint condition.” 

Realising that the last sentence had been directed at the operators, the initiates looked around at each other, suspicious, but knowing better than to panic where their panic might be observed. Nobody wanted to be the one to ask when the rules had changed so that they’d be fighting sworn Dauntless rather than their own classmates - especially not since the punishments for questioning Garrett had risen from shame and extra laps, to being suspended over the Pit for a random, unknown period of time. So, each obediently paired up with their operator, and an eerie silence fell over even the Dauntless-born initiates as they were led each to their own separate rooms.

“Not much of a talker, are you?” Simmons’ operator asked, closing the door behind them. Her face was familiar, but Simmons didn’t care from where. Probably breakfast. She had more important things on her mind, like where she was and what they were about to do. 

Simmons was so distracted, in fact, that for a while she didn’t register that she’d been asked a question. When she did, she rapidly forgot how to answer. Her thoughts were numbed by surprise at the set up in front of her: the chairs from the Choosing test, but with added guards and straps, and a monitor that read not percentages, but a spinning molecular diagram that she recognised. One that she had helped design based on Candor’s truth serum and the simulation serum. 

Fear serum.


	12. Ten

_Candor_

Skye dumped her bag just inside the door, knocked the lights on with a careless slap and dragged herself across the room. She pulled her laptop toward herself and turned it on, but pushed it away a moment later, and replaced it with a pillow over her face and a self-pitying groan.

“Rough day at school?”

“I hate honesty,” she muttered into the pillow. “Honesty can go die in a hole.”

“Careful,” Hunter said, moving to sit on the edge of her bed. “They’ve still got the tag on you.”

Skye removed the pillow from her face with a huff, and glowered at the wristband. The monitor ticked away - reading her pulse and temperature, sweat and muscle tenseness - and remained green. She held up a fist to show Hunter the screen.

“I’m not lying. And it can’t actually hear what I’m saying, just if I’m lying.” She lowered her arm again, and watched the measurements shift. “How did we come to this? How did honesty get reduced to numbers?”

“It hasn’t.” Both frustrated and sympathetic, Hunter leant toward her. “You know it hasn’t. You’ve been learning about logic, about morals, about how honesty has helped defend rights, end wars, bring down dictatorships… Don’t dismiss that because of one little monitoring device. And those numbers __are__ a __part__ of honesty. You can’t deny that.”

“Of course I can’t. I just mean, y’know, honesty is more than just telling the truth. I think it gives our Faction a bad name, that we don’t let people become fully-fledged members until they haven’t had a red flash in three months. _Three months!_ Is that even possible? Ugh, it makes my skin crawl. I feel like they can read my mind. I’m looking over my shoulder every five seconds. Well I mean, I’m not, because we just learnt about how suspicious that is, but I keep catching myself displaying the signs and we’ve only just started this visual lie detector stuff but there are some sharp people in my class and I feel like everyone’s staring at me all the time and-“

“Woah, woah, woah.” Hunter put an arm around her. “It’s okay. Breathe.”

Nodding, Skye obeyed, and clawed at him until he scooped her into his arms as best he could from this angle. Over Hunter’s shoulder, she watched the pulse monitor on her wristband go down.

“This thing’s really taking a toll on you, huh?”

Hunter rested his cheek against the top of Skye’s head. The vision of the Divergent Dauntless in tears was still behind his eyelids, every time he blinked, and his tongue felt like lead with the weight of not telling Skye. Something mysterious was going on; something that involved Divergents and probably trouble. Voicing such a thought wouldn’t usually make Skye panic – she’d probably have teased him about finally seeing the light - but with her as frazzled and anxious as she was now, he couldn’t tell what would happen. She certainly didn’t need the added pressure. He’d never been more inclined to keep something from her in her life, but she’d be furious – and probably endangered – if he didn’t tell her what he had seen.

 _Just not yet,_ he insisted to himself, as Skye pulled herself together a little and settled back against the headboard, loosely hugging her knees. Hunter kept his position on the edge of the bed, hoping his attempt at supportiveness was overriding how shaken he felt – and probably looked – as Skye wiped a few stray tears away with her sleeve.

“Lying sucks,” Skye sniffled. “I keep feeling like I’m either gonna blow it or puke…I don’t think I’m going to survive another two months. Or however long it takes me to pass this stupid thing.”

“Come on, ‘course you will. But are you really sure the lying is the problem? I mean, you haven’t told anyone about the Project for a few years now, and that hasn’t bothered you.”

“Nobody’s asked about that.”

“Maybe not, but keeping something to yourself is very similar to lying, isn’t it? That’s the whole point of the Project. It seems to me that you believe in being open even more than being honest, per se, and yet you’ve managed to live with that secret for this long. Why is this secret so different?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s not.” Skye shrugged. “Or maybe it’s because I could quit the Project if I wanted to, or blame it on someone if I had to. This…Divergence…it’s who I _am,_ you know? I kinda feel like, if they can’t accept it, that’s their problem. Why do I have to suffer for it? But I do, coz, y’know…indignance don’t pay the bills.”

She laughed it off, but Hunter nodded understandingly.

“I don’t envy you that,” he said. “But it’s gotta be worth not getting thrown in prison, or killed, right? And anyway, it’s not just the three months you’ve got to worry about. You chose to stay here. Like it or not, this is going to be your life from now on, and we’ve got to figure out a way to deal with it. To do that, we’ve got to figure out what your real problem is with this.”

Skye took a deep breath, puffing her cheeks as she tried to shake herself into productivity. “Seems impossible.”

“So does an orphan who’s not Abnegation,” Hunter pointed out. “So does a Candor who hacks in her spare time. So does a world where deception doesn’t exist…”

Perhaps it was all the training, or the frayed nerves, or perhaps it was just how well she knew him, but something in the way Hunter’s face and voice changed with the last few words triggered Skye’s internal alarms.

“Hunter…”

“ - and so, apparently, does a world where you cook something. Ever. Chicken or lamb?” Hunter bolted out of his seat and tried to head for the door, but Skye wasn’t fooled by his attempt to distract her. She threw her pillow at him and he caught it, the guilt clear on his face.

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

Hunter ground his teeth together. There was no way out of it now. Skye had her teeth sunk in it – and worse, she deserved to know. She needed to know. The Candor didn’t go for plausible deniability: if she suspected something she wasn’t confident about pursuing herself, she was supposed to report him, and if they suspected something, she would be the first person they investigated. Of course she wouldn’t report him herself, but when questioned, there was no way she could deny suspecting something with the monitor on her wrist. She couldn’t lie about knowing, either, he supposed, but if he was vague enough with his explanation…

“Hunter.” She clicked her fingers in front of his face, demanding. “What the Hell is going on?”

He let out a long sigh, waiting for the spirals of over-thought to dissipate before he resolved to share. There was only so much trouble they could get in after all.

“I’ve got something to show you,” he invited. As she followed him toward his bedroom, Skye swallowed her indignance, curious and concerned by how difficult he seemed to be finding this confession. She waited in silence – surprised to find she was tempted to hold her breath – as he dug a hefty box out of the shadows, and then another, and a third, until he’d built a tower in front of her that was almost as tall as she was. Then he removed the lid of the first box, and pulled out a random folder, opening it for her perusal, and then watching her face with concern as the realisation struck her, and she pulled out file after file to check her suspicions.

“Divergent? You’re researching the Divergent?” Panic and curiosity collided as she paged through the documents. “Transfer rates…Incarceration rates? Wait – transportation records? What the hell is this?”

“I was going to tell you later, since you were having such an awful day,” Hunter explained, “but the Erudite are working with the Peacekeepers on this thing called the Divergence Awareness Program. Basically, it’s an ad campaign, but they’re sure as hell researching it first. Guess which lucky viewer was selected for the taskforce?”

“Oh my God.” Her face dropped, the implications obvious.

“Yeah. Me, Hartley, and Idaho, plus a few high-up Erudite suits; a couple of Doctors and this guy Bakshi, who freaks me out. His _eyes_ are like. I dunno. I felt like he’s gonna eat me.”

Skye’s eyes dropped back to the pages in her arms, working the numbers furiously. Hunter put his hands on his hips and waited, trying not to look as worried as he really was about the hugely incriminating presence of the boxes in his bedroom. He’d been so preoccupied worrying about Skye, given the contents of the boxes, he’d almost forgotten how much trouble he could potentially be getting himself in.

“I should speak about this,” Skye decided. “There are other Divergents out there. They need to know about this.”

“Skye, that’s –“

“Dangerous? Are you kidding?” She slapped the file she was holding on top of the others. “What is wrong with you?”

Hunter shook his head.

“Only a few people have this information. Only one people, actually.”

Skye groaned silently.

“I nicked it from some stuff I was supposed to take to Erudite,” Hunter continued. “Technically, I was supposed to take them straight there, but I wanted to warn you…It’s bad. It’s bad, Skye. They’re arresting people. Taking them to Erudite for experiments or something. The Program – I’m pretty sure it’s meant to teach people how to recognise Divergents…and bring them in.”

Skye pursed her lips, considering the information and its consequences.

“Hunter…I _have_ to report on this.”


	13. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note to all of you writers out there (and readers too actually): conspiracy theories are damn hard to write. Especially since (re)starting my original novel, Dauntless feels like I'm holding a dam together with my fingers and duct tape so bear with me. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> (suicide mention & self harm mention this chap)

_Dauntless_

_-_

Breakfast after the fear serum was a hallowed affair. Some were more subtle about it than others, but after having their weaknesses brutally exploited, few were feeling up to the lively games or cocky fighting that usually had the breakfast room in a ruckus. Many were not eating, or were not fighting back when their food was stolen. Conversations were hushed, in close gatherings, rather than shouted across the room. Baggy-eyed and bone-tired recruits, some with tear-marked cheeks, some with bandages – from lashing out in the machinery, or from some time afterwards, they didn’t say.

Simmons rubbed her upper arms with her hands. It was cold in the early morning, but she’d hardly been able to look at Turgeon’s jacket this morning, much less wear it. She stared blankly down at the breakfast she had assembled. It was relatively healthy and fresh, but the cacophony of smells emanating up from it made her stomach turn. 

Ward was, apparently, having the same problem. He picked at his scrambled eggs, with his free hand below the table – from the looks of it, a clenched fist in his lap. His shoulders were tense. When Simmons sat opposite him, he said nothing, only nodded, and continued slowly eating. 

Fitz sat down with no food. He was restless, edgy, and tugged at his sleeves. His cheeks were among the tear-stained.

“Morning,” he greeted hoarsely. Simmons pushed her tray across the table in reply, but Fitz didn’t seem to feel like eating either.

“Seen Lincoln this morning?” Ward asked. Simmons and Fitz shared a glance.

“No,” Fitz said. 

“Why?” Simmons asked, like a continuation of his words.

“Hey guys.”

Groggy, they turned toward the sound. Lincoln settled with his tray, avoiding eye contact by staring intently at a space on the table between himself and Ward. He shovelled a mouthful of food, clenching the fork tightly with a bandaged wrist. 

“Are you okay?” Simmons asked. 

“Yeah. Fine,” Lincoln snapped.

“Was it the machine – the restraints or -?” 

“No.” 

Simmons pulled back her questions, twisting her fingers together in her lap. She looked around the room again, and a sickening thought occurred to her. 

“Is it just me,” she wondered, “or is this room emptier than usual?” 

“Oh, good! You guys are alright.” Kara ran over with her tray, slipped into the seat beside Simmons, and began tearing at her bread roll. “There’s a massive _something_ going down at the Pit. They say somebody jumped.”

Kara’s knee bounced furiously as she shovelled bread into her mouth. In a second, their minds were racing, like hers, to figure out who it could be – but there were too many absences. Too many options. 

“Could be more than one?” Fitz guessed. 

Lincoln shook his head, overwhelmed.

“It’s not unusual,” Simmons pointed out. “The Dauntless initiation is very demanding, and with a segment like this, bringing up such…horrible things about a person and their lives…I’m surprised the rates aren’t higher, to be honest.” 

“That’s the thing,” Kara interjected. “They don’t usually make this big a deal out of one jumper. It happens. This is something else. And they’re being weirdly secretive about it too. My theory? The serum’s killing people. Like, the stuff itself.”

Simmons snorted. 

“No, it can’t do that.”

“Oh yeah? How do you know, Erudite?”

 _I saw the molecular diagram I designed, I understand and I remember._ Simmons swallowed hard. Kara was already suspicious of her, and to argue with something that specific was as good, at least, as declaring that she refused to abandon her old faction, she was disloyal, she was a risk. 

“I just mean –“ she stammered instead; at least she could still safely afford to sound like an Erudite – “It’d be ridiculous for them to inject us with something that could make us sick or kill us. It would be wasteful. Illogical and needlessly cruel.”

“What if it’s only killing Divergents?” Lincoln proposed, flipping the fork up and down slowly, punching it through a fist and flipping it over and over. “Or something like that. They want to get rid of the Divergents, don’t they?”  
  
“Not so many, it doesn’t make sense,” Simmons objected, digging her fingers tighter into her upper arms, forgetting that they would leave marks. “There _aren’t_ that many, surely.”

“Actually, there are. Well, there could be. It’s a theory…”

As Kara and Simmons bickered about the science of it, Fitz sunk in his seat. He was suddenly conscious of picking at his sleeves like he had used to do back home, but he was not terrified enough, or perhaps too much so, to stop. He wanted to object – after all, they were wrong, they were blatantly wrong, at least about the cures targeting Divergents, and he was the proof – but he was hardly going to point that out. Especially given that they seemed _(seemed,_ he reminded himself, because he was probably misreading things, on high alert as he was) so enthused by the prospect.

“…even reckons maybe _everyone_ could be Divergent.” 

“Where did you hear that?” Ward interrupted to demand of Kara. She shrugged confidently, and popped a sausage in her mouth.

“The radio.” 

“The radio?” Ward screwed up his face. Lincoln and Simmons shared a glance of confusion.

“Yeah,” Kara confirmed. “There’s this back alley station, 084, and they do radical broadcasts. Exposing the system, and all that jazz. I’ll show you tonight.”

“If we’re not all dead by then,” Simmons muttered. 

“Rough night?”

The smooth tone sent a chill straight to Simmons’ bones. Her muscles tensed like vacuum packaging, she could feel her jaw already aching from the clench.

“Bobbi,” she greeted, trying not to sound like it was through clenched teeth. “Have you come to eat with us? Or tell us what’s going on?” 

The others were sharing puzzled glances. Kara and Ward had seen Bobbi around of course, heard her name mentioned. Fitz only knew her as the Enforcer who’d monitored their initial jumps – the one to whom he’d first named himself _Fitz._ Simmons – _Jemma,_ he remembered, clenching his fist to try and reinforce it – had clearly had a very different, and apparently significantly more negative, history with this particular Enforcer. Perhaps she was former Erudite?

He was left to puzzle, as Bobbi called Simmons – _Jemma_ – out of her seat, and away, down the halls, out of sight.

“…Was that weird?” Ward asked, after a moment.

“That was weird,” Lincoln confirmed. 

“Something is definitely up,” Kara agreed. “I think it has to do with the other Erudite initiate. Turgeon?”

“Has what to do with him?” Curious, and in no small part relieved the conversation had moved on from him – but onto Jemma apparently, which he had mixed feelings about – Fitz leaned forward. Kara leaned forward too, in case the quieter-than-usual breakfast room couldn’t obscure her conspiracies. 

“There’s a rumour,” she explained, “that somebody offed him the first night.” 

“What?” Ward scrunched up his nose. “Why? There’s no way he was a threat.” 

“Not sure yet. That’s the nature of rumours.” Kara shrugged. “But think about it. Did any of you ever meet the guy?” 

“He was in my carriage when we jumped,” Lincoln offered. “Big nose. Kinda weedy, timid – I’m not surprised he didn’t make it, really.”

“But he did make it,” Fitz pointed out. “I mean, if he didn’t jump, why would they have given him a jacket? They only gave us those after we destroyed all our clothes.” 

“I didn’t see him at breakfast, or class,” Lincoln continued. 

“Jemma had his jacket on to the first breakfast, didn’t she?” Ward realised. It had been too big.

“Yeah. Yes. _And._ She was acting like something had already happened.” Fitz’ mind was racing, excited and horrified and everywhere in between all at once. “So he can’t have failed class. Unless he pulled out?”

“Maybe,” Kara conceded, “or maybe, he was forced out somehow. Not through failure. Through something else. _Maybe_ she knows what happened. Maybe she _made_ it happen.”

“No, come on,” Ward objected. “That’s ridiculous. What did she do? Drag his body down to the East River while we weren’t watching? Back then, she’d have been hard pressed to bury a _cat_ by herself.”

“Maybe she was scared,” Lincoln pointed out. “Maybe he threatened her. Trying to pick off the weaker competition to make it easier for himself or something, and she fights back, with adrenaline, accidentally kills him, then has to do something about it – maybe Bobbi helped.”

They continued batting theories back and forth, but there was one that seemed alarmingly obvious to Fitz, more and more as the others seemed not to notice it. Likely they had simply cast the subject of Divergence from their minds as they’d moved on, but Fitz was still feeling the cold sweat he’d drenched himself in as they’d talked about the hunting. Bobbi’s sharp ice-blue eyes haunted him, warned him, that she was an Enforcer. This was about the law. If Jemma had indeed killed Turgeon, she would have been punished somehow, or extradited to Candor to face punishment. But what if _Turgeon_ had in fact been the one doing something wrong? What if Bobbi’s borrowing of Simmons now, was not a follow-up, but assistance with an investigation? An investigation, Fitz had to conclude, as his heart began to race dizzyingly fast, _into the Divergent?_

-

Jemma’s heart was racing too, as she tried not to follow to close or too far behind Bobbi’s heels. Her mind raced through the possibilities. Were they going to ask her to meet Turgeon? Was this somehow a test of her loyalty? Or a reward, perhaps? A career opportunity, even? Or had they found some cause for suspicion, separate from Turgeon, perhaps betrayed by her reaction to the fear serum?

Her spiralling speculation was cut short when Bobbi ducked into a side passage, and pulled her in after. 

“Jemma, listen to me,” Bobbi breathed. “Do you know any other Divergents?” 

“No.” 

“Are you _sure?_ Anyone. Even anyone you slightly suspect?” 

“No!”

Jemma tried not to squirm under Bobbi’s gaze. It was so intense, it was not just holding her, but pinning her to the spot like a collected butterfly. Her heart thrummed dangerously fast in her chest.

“Okay.” Bobbi bit her lip, and lowered that fierce gaze for a moment. “Look, if you think of anyone, write their name on the wall off the path of the morning run. It’s important.”

“Why? What’s important?”

“The less you know, the better.”

Jemma narrowed her eyes. The Erudite in her rebelled, screaming, against the opposite of all she had been raised to believe.

“I’ll let you know,” she offered tightly. 

“Good.” Bobbi nodded. “Now, if anyone asks, you were talking to me about baton technique, okay?”

Jemma nodded. Bobbi pulled a baton from a belt brace out of sight, hidden by her jacket, and offered it out.

“What are you doing?” 

“You’re a bad liar. I’m trying to help.”


End file.
